Locked Within a Mind
by TheGirlInWonderland
Summary: Alfred gets hurt in battle, leaving Arthur to care for him until he gets better. But what if Alfred doesn't want to get better?
1. Chapter 1

The phone in the hall rang loudly, rattling under the weight of the message it was desperately trying to convey.

Its insistence woke Arthur, who wondered for the thousandth time why he hadn't installed a phone in his bedroom. He pushed back the covers and slid his legs to the side until his feet brushed the plush carpet. Heaving a sigh, he started to shuffle his way down the hall. Arthur picked up the insistent and uttered a bleary, "Hello?"

"It's about fucking time you picked up," Alfred snapped.

Arthur stiffened with worry. "Is that gunfire?"

"Yes, that is goddamn gunfire; you're a smart little shit, aren't you? Sorry man, I'm just, I'm losing, hardcore. Ya gotta help me."

"Where are you at?"

"I'm at Russia's place, and China's pissed at me too. Ya gotta"—a gunshot, this one much louder and sickeningly clearer than the ones that had been background noise—"Oh shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Arthur, bring help. Bring doctors. Ivan just"—the connection was cut.

The phone fell from his fingers with a clatter. He had to go, now.

Arthur took a deep breath and it let it out slowly, steepled his fingers, and carefully built a barrier from his emotions. He mustn't be too hasty. Picking up the abandoned phone, he called his generals and gave them their orders. They accepted them without question. That's what he liked about them.

The battle scene was horrific. Bodies were strewn everywhere, mostly American and Russian. Occasionally, a Chinese soldier could be seen lying in the mud, blood pooling from a fatal wound. It was even rarer to see an Englishman in that position. The brightly overcast day darkened as clouds rolled in, bringing a drizzle of rain that hardly helped to put out the fire that had consumed buildings, and only intensified the foul smell of death. Arthur paid attention to none of this. Cracks and fissures began appearing in his emotional barrier as he searched ever more frantically for Alfred. His boots squished in the damp ground as he came upon a dilapidated shack. This was it, the last place left to look.

The door was barely hanging onto its hinges. It fell as Arthur pushed it open and stepped into the doorway. There he was. His cheeks were too pale and beads of perspiration collected on his forehead. Blood was seeping from between his fingers clutching at his abdomen. His eyes that had been screwed up tight shot open as Arthur stepped into the room.

"Shit, Artie," he said faintly, "I thought you were never gonna come," and promptly passed out.

Arthur stuck his head out the door and yelled, "Get a doctor. Get an ambulance. Now!"

As two men ran to get the ambulance, one stepped forward, "I'm a doctor." Arthur seized him and pulled him into shack. "He's been shot. Save him."

As the doctor, a man with dark skin and quick hands, set to work, Arthur hovered just inside the doorway. He clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms, then relaxed. He repeated this over and over until the ambulance came with EMTs pouring out of it, all dressed in sterile white. A gurney came and swept Alfred away. Arthur watched this, detached from his body, paralyzed by the anxiety sweeping through.

"Sir?" an EMT asked, "Would you like to ride with him?"

Arthur nodded mutely and followed her. Seeing Alfred attached to an IV with a stranger's blood dripping into his veins made Arthur's legs weak. It took him several attempts to climb into the vehicle, ignoring the sympathetic helping hands offered from his men.

Hesitantly, Arthur reached out and touched Alfred's face, cupping his cheek. It was burning hot; Arthur almost snatched his hand back, but Alfred stirred under his touch.

"Artie? S'that you?" he mumbled.

"Yes," Arthur whispered in response.

"Oh, God, I'm still alive…," he trailed off, sinking back into a fitful sleep.

He had an infection. That's what the doctor told him, his speech about the mortality rate of these infections from open wounds full of apologies and pitying eyes. Arthur wondered what he was saying sorry for. It wasn't his fault.

Arthur looked at his watch for the thousandth time in five minutes. He tapped his foot. He cracked his knuckles. He couldn't stand all of this waiting. Just as he was getting anxious enough to look for the television remote, a Frenchman walked in, bearing a load of thick books.

"Francis? What're you doing here? And what's with the books?" Arthur asked as he plopped them down on the nightstand with a thud.

"_Bonjour, mon amour_! I heard what happened to Alfred, and I simply had to do something! I knew you would be worrying at his bedside, so I thought, 'I shall bring him books!' You can read them to Alfred!" Francis said, looking delighted at his own brilliance.

Arthur just stared at him.

"Hm, oh, you're admiring my hair? Oh, no, don't stare! I haven't done it yet!" Francis said flamboyantly, fluffing a stubby ponytail.

"No, that's just, it's a great idea," Arthur said in shock.

"I'm glad you think so too, _mon amour_. Now though, I must be off. I hope the books I left will help you with your true feelings toward dear Alfred there. And, you know, if you ever need me, I will always love you _mon pétale_," with a swift kiss on the cheek, Francis swept out of the room, leaving a trace of musky cologne in his wake.

Arthur's eyes watered. If he could, he would just fall in love with Francis, and not some thick-headed American. No, he needed to keep thoughts like that out of mind for now. Arthur took a seat on the uncomfortable armchair, and pulled out a book. On the cover was a big-breasted woman in the arms of a shirtless man with flowing hair. The title was, "On the Wings of Passion."

His face bright red, Arthur slammed it down, and picked up a book titled, "Love Poems: A Collection." Much better. Flipping past the title page and the introduction, Arthur cleared his throat and read,

"If I could have just one wish

I would wish to wake up everyday

to the sound of your breath on my neck

the warmth of your lips on my cheek

the touch of your fingers on my skin

and the feel of your heart beating with mine."

"Artie?" Alfred mumbled.

"Y-yeah, Al?"

"What was Francis talking about, helping you with your true feelings toward me?"

"O-oh, um, well, erm… I love you," Arthur said all in a rush.

Alfred smiled, "Good."

"Wait, why is it good?"

But Al had already fallen back asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day would have been a standstill if not for the books Arthur read to Alfred as the latter tossed and turned. The monologue was briefly punctuated by Arthur's infrequent breaks, or the infrequent times when Al would wake up.

"Artie!"

Arthur's head snapped up from the thick book his eyes had been fixated on. "Al?"

"Feliciano and Ludwig are happy together, right?"

"Well, yeah, I guess. I haven't heard otherwise."

Alfred nodded. "And Tino? With Berwald?"

Arthur smiled. "They just had a baby girl last night."

There was a strange hollowness in Al's eyes when he looked at Arthur. "That's because they're good people. I'm not a good person. I don't deserve happiness, or a baby girl."

Arthur wanted to object, but he couldn't, the words had vanished. He sat in disbelief, until Alfred's blue eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out. Arthur quickly hit the button to call a nurse. Kiku walked in a moment later, shiny shoes clacking against the ground, his pressed white suit barely creasing with his steps.

"We will have to take Alfred-san for some tests. I suggest you get some rest, Arthur-san," he said quietly.

Arthur nodded and stood, his back cracking in three places and all of his joints popping as he stretched. Bloody hell, he was sore. And he needed some caffeine. He meandered over to the vending machines. Of course, they had no tea. He put a couple of coins in the coffee dispenser and pressed the "French Roast" button, snorting softly to himself. He had a twisted sense of humor. A Styrofoam cup appeared, catching the stream of dark brown liquid. Arthur lifted the steaming cup to his lips and blew softly. This was the only time you'd catch him blowing something French. He chuckled again. He took a cautious sip, and gagged. Tasted like cat piss. Of course it did.

A finger tapped his shoulder. Arthur turned around a bit too quickly, splashing some of the horrid coffee on his finger. He hissed in pain, throwing the cup in the trashcan. Francis stood before him, laden down with a tote bag, a lunch box, and a duffel bag. A quite familiar duffel bag, actually. One emblazoned with the Union Jack.

"What're you doing with my stuff?"

Francis pouted, "What? No 'Hello Francis, how are you?' Or even a 'Oh, I'm so grateful you brought my things!'"

Arthur sighed. He was right, even if the Englishman didn't want to admit it. Arthur tried to paste a smile on his face. From Francis' expression, it didn't go that well. The Frenchman looked at him with pity, then turned away saying, "Well, let's go to your lover boy's room, shall we?"

Francis walked away with a swing in his hips, garnering glances from men and women, and Arthur just trailed after him, hoping that they wouldn't think he was with him. They got to the sterile room; Arthur noticed Al wasn't back yet. Francis set down the bags with a huff and stretched like a cat. Arthur picked up the duffel bag and unzipped it. In it were his clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a washcloth. The tote bag was stuffed full of thick books; Arthur pulled one out. It was from his house, titled _Alice in Wonderland_. Arthur smiled. Lewis Carroll had been a nice chap, if a bit odd. The Harry Potter series was in there as well, and _Pride and Prejudice._

Francis was now rummaging around in the lunchbox, which seemed to be full of thermoses, and a lone, rather lopsided sandwich. Arthur picked up the sandwich, unwrapped it, and took a large bite. It was peanut butter and Nutella, something Al had shown him. Francis stuck a cup of steaming tea in front of his face. Arthur breathed in the scent of a perfectly brewed Earl Grey, with eight drops of milk, just the way he liked it.

"I'll inform the nurses to bring up an extra helping of food for you everyday. There's tea in here, and you should have enough clothes for a week. Did I forget anything? Hmm, I don't think so. Oh yes! I brought you a cell phone, just call me if you need anything, okay,_mon amour_?"

Arthur nodded. "Why are you helping me?"

Francis swooped down and kissed him on both cheeks, lips lingering ever so slightly. "Love. I love you,_mon amour_, and I will do anything to help you."

Arthur knew this of course, Francis had told him of his love years ago, but nothing had ever really changed between the two, until now. "Oh."

"Now, get changed into something more comfortable. And brush your teeth. Even I wouldn't kiss you with the morning breath you have right now. Then try to get some rest. I'll be back whenever you call!" and with a flourish, Francis was gone.

Arthur got up, and did as he was told. He scrubbed at his teeth until all he could taste was the mint that left a tingling sensation in his mouth. He pulled on his pajama pants, these also emblazoned with the Union Jack, and a white t-shirt. Maybe he could take a nap, just for a little while. They wouldn't even know he had. Arthur sat down gently on the lumpy bed and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. It was cold in the room, even with his socks on. He pulled the thin sheet over himself and yawned hugely. The pillow was flat, he was cold, and the bed was uncomfortable, but Arthur fell asleep, his body relaxing into a fitful dream.

* * *

Author's Note- Thank you for reading the second chapter! I would like to thank my wonderful beta, xasiannoodlesx, for being a wonderful beta!

If you would please review, I would appreciate it, and please come back for the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

The morning was dark and stormy. Arthur tried to roll over and get comfortable, but something stopped him. Something large and warm, with a familiar, comforting scent.

He snuggled into Alfred's side, feeling the fabric of the hospital gown crinkle under his weight. Strong arms cradled him gently. A careful kiss was planted to the top of his head. Arthur opened his eyes and looked up. Al's hollow blue eyes were looking at him contemplatively. There was something different about him that Arthur couldn't quite place. Resignation was folded into the creases in his forehead. Despair clung to his breath like whiskey. This wasn't Al. Al was always laughing, always joking. Happiness radiated off of him. He was always talking. Now there was only silence. It was a quietness that stole your breath and clenched at your chest.

Arthur swallowed away the fist gripping his lungs. "Good morning."

Al's eyes widened a bit. "You could say that."

"How're you doing?"

"Bullet wound's all sealed up. I heal fast," he replied with a shrug.

Arthur whispered, "That's not what I was asking."

"I know."

They didn't talk after that. They just sat there, Alfred with his arms around Arthur, Arthur trying to enjoy it while it lasted.

Kiku walked in.

"Hello. I need to speak with Kirkland-san please," he said shortly.

Al slid his hands away from Arthur. The linoleum floor was cold under his bare feet. They stood to the side of the door, which Kiku pulled shut behind him.

"What's up?" Arthur tried to ask casually.

Kiku looked at him gravely. "Kirkland-san, Jones-kun is free to go home. We are releasing him to you."

Arthur nodded, and then did a double take. "To me? Why can't he just go home?"

Kiku looked uncomfortable. "You may have noticed that Jones-kun is rather, well, depressed. We think it would be best if he had someone to watch him. You can of course, refuse, but I think you will have Jones-kun's best interests in mind."

So it was true. Even the doctors had noticed.

"Yeah, I'll take him."

"Excellent. Arrangements will be made at once."

Arthur shuffled back into the room. Alfred cocked an eyebrow. "So, what're you doin' with me?" he asked.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "You're gonna stay at my house for a while."

"Okay."

That was easy. Arthur had been sure that getting Al to resign to staying at his house would take at least twenty minutes and possibly some sedatives. The quick capitulation caught him by surprise.

"Are you gonna take a shower?" Alfred ran a hand through his hair. "I sure as hell need one."

"I'll take one after you're done," Arthur waved him into the bathroom that smelled of antiseptic and old people. He set about packing up, shoving books into the bag, wondering how on Earth Francis had gotten them all to fit in there. Speaking of Francis, the bastard had packed a shirt that read "From Paris, With Love" in curly pink writing. It was one of those shirts that always fall off one shoulder, no matter what you do to stop it. Arthur had a sneaking suspicion that was a girl shirt. One that was confirmed when Alfred walked out of the bathroom, dripping wet and glorious, cocked an eyebrow and asked, "What the fuck are you wearing?"

Arthur blushed. "Francis picked it out for me, the bastard."

The corner of Alfred's mouth curled up a fraction of an inch. "Looks good on you. You should wear French fashion more often."

"Oh, shut up, you."

Alfred got dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that wasn't for girls, and then Kiku came to the room and ushered them down to a much too fancy sports car. Francis was behind the wheel, wearing stylish sunglasses and button down shirt with too few buttons. He helped Arthur put the bags in the trunk of the car.

"I see you like my shirt, _mon amour_," he purred.

Arthur elbowed him in the ribs. "For your information, I'm only wearing this because everything else was dirty, you ponce." he hissed.

"He looks bad," Francis murmured.

"I know." Arthur glanced at Al sitting in the back seat of the car, shoulders slumped, face in his hands. He was paler than usual.

"Take care of him. I don't want to see you if something should happen to him. Your heartbreak would be unbearable, _mon petale_." Francis pressed a light kiss to the back of Arthur's neck and walked away, climbing into the car. Arthur got into the other side, right next to Al. He shivered in the blast of freezing air from the air conditioner, so Arthur looped an arm around him and leaned into him.

"I would buckle up. I drive, how do you say, recklessly." Francis gave them a shit-eating grin in the rearview mirror before stomping on the gas pedal.

"JESUS CHRIST! WHO DID YOU GET DRIVING LESSONS FROM? ITALY?" Arthur shrieked as the sped down the road at a bound-to-be-illegal speed.

Francis pouted. "No, he got them from me."

"Slow down!" Arthur grasped for the seatbelt, not feeling much better when it was snapped into place. The only good thing about Francis's insane driving was that they got to Arthur's house in a time he didn't think was possible. He took longer than that getting to Al. He flinched. It was his fault Alfred was like this. If he had gotten there sooner, everything would be okay. Al would be happy. Arthur wouldn't be so indebted to Francis.

Al didn't notice when they pulled into the driveway. He didn't move when Arthur got out of the car and popped the trunk, retrieving the bags. He looked as if he could sit in the car forever. Francis stuck his head in the car. "We must go, I know my car is fabulous, but really, the house is much fancier."

Alfred murmured something.

"What was that?"

"I said, 'Why didn't he fall for you?' This'd be so much easier on him. With you he'd be happy. With me, it'll just end up badly." Al clenched his hair in his fists.

"You think I know? If I had my way, I would be with him, and you, well, I don't know where you'd be. Didn't you start the fight with Russia and China because of him?"

Al nodded. "Ivan was being an asshole, saying that the British Empire didn't have any more pride left, that he should just give up, and disappear. I-I had to fight him. I couldn't let him get away with that."

"You had a reason to fight. Why are you depressed now?" Francis asked.

"Everyone died because of my anger. I could've just walked away. Told him off or something, I dunno. But no, I had to go stick my head in someone else's business, and so many men died because of me. And all of the other battles. So many people died. So many…" Tears fell down Al's face. He hiccupped.

"Francis! What did you do?!" Arthur yelled, pulling him away from the car door.

"Shh, it's okay. It's okay. Everything is gonna be fine," he told Al, cradling his face in his paler hands. Arthur planted a kiss on his forehead, just under the cowlick. "It's gonna be okay. Shh."

Al looked up at him, eyes watery. "Why do you love me?" he asked desperately.

"What?"

"Why do you love me? I hurt you so badly that time," Arthur recalled with a wince. The Revolutionary War was forever engraved in his memories. "See! Even now it still hurts you! So why? Why not Francis?! He hasn't hurt you as badly as I have. He's not depressed. He-he-he…" Alfred collapsed into sobs. Arthur wrapped his arms around him.

"The War was my fault. I knew you wanted to be free, I had been expecting it, but I was too stubborn. I didn't want to let it go. And I love you because you are you. It may not be rational, to you there may be other choices I could have, but for me, there will always be you, and only you." Arthur rocked them back and forth on the leather seat, stroking Al's hair.

"Big brother, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Shh, it's okay. It's okay."


	4. Chapter 4

He couldn't feel the rain as it fell around him. He looked up at the tall blond boy.

"Why Al?" he asked, desperation gnawing at him.

Al squinted at him then blinked. "You were so great, the magnificent British Empire. Now look at you, even I can beat you. What happened?"

"I-I-"

Al kicked him, and said in a voice that was definitely not his own. "Get out of my sight,_mon amour_."

Arthur jolted upright in bed, painting. It was only a dream. Al was beside him, apparently shirtless. Arthur cautiously lifted the blanket covering his body. He was completely naked, and it seemed Alfred was too. Arthur flushed bright red and dropped the blanket.

Alfred turned over on his side and woke up.

Arthur looked at him, ready to ask a question that got stuck to the back of his throat at the sight of those crystal blue eyes. The pupils were blown wide, they just screamed-

"Fuck me," Al breathed.

"Wh-what?!"

"Fuck me. I want you to take that magnificent love muscle and shove it in me,_mon amour_." Al transformed into Francis, who turned into Kiku, who faded into Tino, Feliciano, Lovino, Antonio, Matthew, all begging, "Fuck me, oh please, please fuck me."

Arthur woke up abruptly on the cot he had set up next to his bed where Al was sleeping, or supposed to be sleeping.

The white sheets were tucked in neatly, the comforter smooth. The pillows were perfectly lined up. There was a note on the nightstand, written in Al's messy scrawl.

"_Iggy,_

_Sorry. I'm sorry. I know you love me, and I love you too, but I would only make things miserable for you. I'm selfish, and can never truly make you happy. I'd only be thinking about myself. This is the first selfless thing I think I've done in a long time. Me being out of your life for good will help you move on._

_Do you know why I fought with Ivan? Francis thinks it was to defend your honor, and I suppose that's partially true, but I also wanted you to see me as someone who would stick up for you._

_You have no idea how sorry I am, that I've had to do this. Trust me, it's for the best._

_Love, Alfie (The Hero)_"

It was signed with the pet name that Arthur hadn't used for him since Al was very small. Dread swelled in Arthur's stomach. He had to find him before it was too late.

Arthur pulled open the door the master bathroom. The smooth tile was slick. He flicked on the light.

Al was propped up in the near-overflowing bathtub. His clear eyes were open and unseeing. One of his arms was flung over the side, red marks etched deep into it. The water in the tub was stained a sickening crimson. A squat bottle of pills was empty, resting just beyond Al's fingertips. Other bottles were open; their contents spilled everywhere. There was an empty ghost of a grin dancing on Al's lips.

"Oh, God, Alfie, oh God!"

Arthur dropped to his knees and started screaming.

* * *

Author's Note- Thank you for reading, and please review! I would like to thank my wonderful beta, xasiannoodlesx.


	5. Chapter 5

Francis tentatively knocked on the door. "_Mon amour_, your brother is here to see you."

"Send him in." Arthur's voice was hollow. He robotically picked up the black tie on the chair, set there by Francis.

Allistor walked in slowly, his eyes slinking around the room. "Damn Artie, what've you done with this place?"

The room, to put it simply, was completely trashed. The curtains were torn and thrown on the floor; the dresser was on its side, the lamp in pieces near the wall, the mirror was cracked. The only unharmed thing in the room was the four poster bed. It still stood, the sheets immaculate, the comforter pulled tight. The rest of the furniture was piled up outside the door to the bathroom.

"What do you want Scottie? I'm busy." Arthur said quietly.

Allistor ran a hand through his hair. "Wanna go drinking?"

"No."

"Look mate, I know I'm not your biggest fan, but you're my brother. Brothers look out for each other, right? Going to that blasted funeral will only make you sadder. So, let's go get drunk."

Arthur paused, his tie half-done. "Where would we go?"

"I dunno, wherever you want, I suppose."

"Could we go to your house?"

Allistor started. "My house? You haven't been to my house in centuries."

"I know. Now let's go, before I change my mind."

"Sure thing mate."

"You want whiskey?"

"What else do you have?"

"Whiskey."

"Then I'll take whiskey."

Arthur was sprawled across a couch, his tie and jacket flung to the side, the first two buttons on his shirt undone. Allistor handed him a crystal glass.

"Thanks mate."

"S'nothing. So, what've you been up to, or do I not want to know."

Arthur's expression twisted; his eyes filled with pain and tears. His mouth straightened into a thin, hard line. "You don't want to know."

"I figured. How drunk to you want to get?"

"Completely shit-faced."

"Coming right up, brother."

Night was falling, the street lights coming on as Francis walked home. The funeral had been depressing. Matthew had cried the entire time, that ridiculous bear he carried around asking the whole time, progressively more frantically, "Who are you?"

There was someone on his porch. Francis froze. He could smell the stench of whisky from where he stood. He cautiously walked closer. Arthur was settled into a lump, his shirt open, one shoe on, his hair a complete mess, and a mostly empty bottle in one hand.

"Arthur! What the hell are you doing?!"

Arthur's head snapped up. "Al?"

Francis felt a crack in his heart. "Arthur, we need to get you home."

"No!"

Francis was shocked by the amount of force behind the shriek. Arthur started sobbing.

"I can't go back! I can't! I go back, I'll…" Arthur trailed off, tears still running down his face.

"Up you get," Francis murmured, supporting Arthur as he half-heartedly attempted to get his balance back.

"Don't take me home," Arthur said softly.

"I won't. Don't worry."

"Allistor told me I would forget. He told me if I drank enough, I could forget. But I can't. Dammit Francis, I can't forget! Every time I close my eyes, all I see is him. Every bloody time. And it's entirely my fault he's fucking dead. I could've stopped him! I could've done something! But what did I do? I just sat around like a ponce and told myself he'd get over it. But he fucking didn't! He's fucking dead! He's gone and offed himself, and now I can never see him again. I love him so much. I love him so fucking much, Francis."

Francis half-dragged him into a spare bedroom, and gently set him on the bed. "I know. I know." He said, peeling Arthur's whisky soaked shirt off of him. He turned to put it in the wash, when a hand caught his wrist. He looked back at the extremely drunk man he loved. "Don't leave me," the man slurred, "Please. Not you too."

"I'll be right back, _mon amour_. I'll put your clothes in the wash, and I'll get you some clean ones, okay?"

"No. Stay." Arthur stared at him.

Francis dropped the shirt and climbed onto the bed. He faintly heard Arthur mutter something.

"What?"

"Maybe this will work," Arthur repeated, a damp gleam of hope shining in his eyes.

"What will work?" Francis managed to ask before Arthur lunged at him.

The kisses were wet and sloppy. Arthur fumbled at the buttons on Francis's shirt before trying to tear it off. Francis pulled himself away, breathing heavier than normal. "_Mon amour_, I don't think this is a good idea."

Arthur looked at him with a desperation Francis had never seen before. "Please Francis. Please. I need this. I need to forget. Please help me." His voice trailed off into a whisper.

More cracks etched themselves into Francis's chest, and his resolve caved in on itself. "Just this once."

Arthur's face broke into the widest smile Francis had seen in a long time. He pushed away his misgivings and moved in closer, bringing Arthur's face to his.

* * *

Yes, this was the way he could forget. Arthur could lose himself in the skin of this man. Except he couldn't. The skin was too pale. The hair was too blond, too long. But if Arthur shut his eyes, he could believe for a moment that it was Al with him, Al was on top of him, Al was slowly pushing, and God, that felt so good. It was Al that clenched his hips with tight fingers, he could believe this. For a moment, all was right with the world. Then the man who was really on top of him, who was really clenching his hips, groaned out, "Oh, _mon amour_," and just like that, the spell was broken.

Arthur leaned forward onto his arms, and hung his head forward, so his tears dripped up into his hair.

* * *

Author's Note: This chapter wasn't beta-ed, so I'm sorry if the quality isn't as good as previous chapters. Please review, and I'll be posting a lot more Hetalia fanfiction, so pop back in to check that out! There will be two more chapters, I hope you'll stick around!


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur kept his eyes shut tight. Maybe last night hadn't happened. Maybe it had been a dream. Maybe, if he believed hard enough, it would all go away. Yet no matter how hard he tried, the headache wouldn't stop pressing against the back of his eyes. The warm body wrapped around his wouldn't vanish like he wanted it to. At least Francis was still asleep. Thank God.

Arthur slowly extracted himself from Francis' grasp, freezing every time Francis moved or mumbled in his sleep. Finally free, he followed his nose to his shirt and trousers, both reeking of alcohol. He heard a small voice behind him.

"Where are you going?"

Arthur didn't answer, just located his shoe and tugged it on.

Francis sat up in bed, sheet covering him from the waist down. "Where are you going?" he repeated.

"Home."

"Do you want breakfast first?" Francis's voice was tentative, hopeful.

"No. I want to go home."

"Oh."

Arthur heard his voice fall, and anger swirled in the pit of his stomach. Didn't he remember the terms that they had… done it on? Was he under some delusion that they had sex out of love?

"_Mon amour_? I'm sorry," Francis whispered.

"You bloody should be!" Arthur exploded, his short fuse even shorter than usual. Francis flinched as if he had been slapped.

"I was drunk! Completely smashed! You could've done something, anything to stop me, but what did you do? You went along with it! Why?! Don't answer, I already know!"

Francis was shaking, tears welling in his eyes, "No, I, because-"

Arthur cut him off. "It's because you're a whore. You are a dirty, shameless slut."

With that, he stood up and stormed out of the room, not waiting long enough to Francis say "Because I love you."

It wasn't Francis's fault. Arthur knew that. He was someone there, someone to blame. Apologizing was out of the question. How do you face someone you completely crushed?

Arthur unlocked his front door and stepped inside. It was immaculately clean, Francis's work, Arthur assumed, a pained twinge of guilt twisting in his gut. The only place the Frenchman hadn't cleaned was the bedroom.

Arthur carefully opened the bedroom door, his breath catching. Everything was the same as yesterday. Arthur walked as calmly as he could to the hall closet. He creaked open the door and methodically grabbed a broom, dust pan, and a garbage bag. He padded down the creaky floor back to his room. The shattered glass of the mirror still crunched under his feet. He felt a wave of nausea, whether that was from the hangover or the memories, he couldn't tell. The blankets were still rumpled from where he laid there, staring at the wall for hours, usually silent, sometimes screaming until his voice gave out.

He swallowed back bile and swept up the glass near the bathroom. The scent of blood lingered near the door, curled out from underneath it. He scrambled away, but the stench was still there, growing stronger and stronger. He had to get out of there. But the floor stretched out in front of him, elongating as he walked. He finally stumbled into the hall and slammed the door, locking it with shaking fingers. His back hit the wall and he slid down it, panting.

Dammit, he couldn't go back in there. He couldn't do it. Arthur stumbled down the stairs and outside, into the backyard. He fell to his knees and clawed at the ground, tearing up grass and soil. He dropped the key into the misshapen, shallow hole and spread the dirt back over it.

There, it was done. He was done. He would never go back in that room. Al would say he was being a fool. Al would say that he shouldn't just run away from things he wanted to that he didn't want to face.

Al. Arthur staggered to his feet. He had never said goodbye to Al. He plodded back inside, and fell down on the couch. He had to say goodbye. Where was his suit? It was time to visit a grave.

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Author's Note- Second to last chapter! I hope you liked it, I'm not too good with endings... Anyway, review, favorite, all that good stuff, and if you would please check out my other stuff (I just posted a SuFin), I would really appreciate it! Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7 The End

There was a seam running around the patch of ground they had put Al in, where the sod hadn't been placed correctly. Arthur dug at this with the toe of his shoe. His hands were stuck into his pockets; he stared at his feet.

"I'm so ashamed," he murmured. The gravestone didn't answer. The overcast sky dripped on him.

He loosened his tie. "You'd ask me why I was wearing a suit. You'd tell me I should wear something more exciting to your grave, maybe my pirate-day clothes, or the stuff from my punk phase." He chuckled.

He looked at the gravestone.

Alfred F. Jones

July 4, 1776

August 18, 2012

Arthur sighed. "God, I miss you Alfie. I've been a wreck. I had sex with Francis. I know, I didn't think I would either. I even bottomed." He chuckled a bit before sitting down on the muddy ground. He reached out and ran his fingers over the grooves in the stone.

"You're really gone, aren't you? It never seemed real, until now. I should've said something earlier, y'know, about how I felt? You'd tell me to stop dwelling on the past, but if there's no present or future with you, what am I supposed to dwell on? I never want to forget you, Al, and I never will. I swear to you."

The song of a single bird broke the deafening silence. Arthur placed his head in his hands. "I-I don't know what to say. I just want to hear your voice again, as obnoxious as it was. Your eyes, b-before you… got hurt, were always so, I dunno, I don't know, I don't bloody know! I want to tell you that I miss you, and I wish you were here, but if you were here, I'd probably want to slap you! Why on earth did you think offing yourself would solve anything? I told you I loved you, how am I supposed to move on now? Alfie, I need you, and you abandoned me!"

His next words were swallowed by the sobs that wracked their way through his body, shaking his shoulders, and forcing tears out of his eyes.

"Alfie, come back to me," he choked out.

The bird stopped singing, a soft rain began to fall.

"I don't want to be in a world where you're not," Arthur said.

He thought he heard Al whisper something he couldn't quite hear.

"Excellent, now I'm having delusions," he muttered.

Arthur stood, and tried to get the dirt off of the seat of his pants. He felt like an empty shell, all emotion sucked out of him. He trudged to his car and climbed into the driver's side.

"Bye, Alfie," he whispered to the gravestone before putting the key in the ignition and driving away.

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Author's Note: This is the last chapter! I honestly cried while writing this, sorry if I made you cry as well...

I love reviews, and I would also love it if you checked out my other work!


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